Flying in his charming mask, eating bergamot,
this Jew from Duluth is a dancer. Though queasy,
his three-star lurid disguises are fantasies.
He aims his vote east, a payment for chosing queues.
Sewers toot and chant in the minor mode.
The air isn’t ill, but decorated, an alluring bonfire.
Armour vanquishes the view’s opportunity.
We eat, lurk, and by chance watch the fight.
Oh, calm clear idiot! In his secret meeting with beauty
he kicks Fate, ravels her swan with an ax and dense sabers.
Sandlot ecstasies lead us to jets, of course,
those of Great Les, obviously svelte, as parmesan or marble.